Flung Roses

by Becky Bain

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,

Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng.

- Ernest Dowson

His head ached abominably, and there was a dull pounding in hisears. His eyelids fluttered and he squinted against painfully brightlight.

"Vincent, thank God. How do you feel?"

A flesh-colored blur swam into his field of vision; he strainedto focus. A man with lined face and grizzled hair hovered above him,frowning. The face was familiar, and he struggled to place it.

"I'm... what happened?"

"There was an accident. A cave-in. You were hurt."

He raised a hand to his throbbing temple. "I don'tremember..."

"I'm not surprised," the man said briskly. "From what thechildren said, it happened very quickly."

"Children...?"

"The children are all fine." That was a woman's voice. Akind, careworn face intruded. "You were able to get them to safety. That's how you were hurt."

Her face, too, was familiar, but the effort of concentrating ontheir words, trying to understand, exhausted him. He closed his eyesand slept.

When he woke again, the chamber was dimmed; the light of a fewfat candles, glowing on a nearby shelf, dissipated before it couldoutline the far reaches of the chamber.

He blinked against even that pale glow, fighting the persistentache in his head.

"Vincent?" The voice didn't belong to either the man or thewoman he'd seen earlier.

He turned his head, wincing at a sharp thrust of pain.

A young woman, pale brown hair spilling over her shoulders,bent over him. "You're awake." She smiled and stroked a wisp ofhair back from his forehead. "Father said you were conscious for amoment this afternoon, before I got here."

Father. The face of the man he'd seen earlier floated into hismind. Father. Of course.

"Yes," he agreed. His voice rasped in his throat and shereached for something out of his line of sight.

"Here." She offered him a cup with a bent straw. "Somewater."

He sipped gratefully, and studied her in the flickering lightof the candles. She looked wan; faint lines were etched around hereyes and mouth. "Thank you," he murmured when she took the cupaway.

She pushed a limp strand of hair behind her ear and smiled. "You're welcome."

Lassitude pulled at him. "So tired," he murmured.

"Of course you are," she said softly, and leaned forward.

As his eyes closed, he felt the soft, warm pressure of her lipson his forehead; the sensation gave great comfort, and he driftedback to sleep.

It must be day, he thought when his eyes opened again. Thechamber was brighter, with more candles and even an oil lamp ortwo.

Only the older man was in attendance this time.

"Vincent," the man said, bending over him. "Good. You'rewaking more often now."

"Father," he remembered, and was rewarded with a distractedfrown.

"I want to examine you while you're awake," Father said, andpulled a small penlight from somewhere inside a patched, fringedvest. He flipped the light on and shined it into Vincent's eyes.

Vincent blinked violently and tried to turn away from theglare.

"Vincent, I'm sorry. I know how sensitive your eyes are, butyou've suffered a head injury. Peter and I agree it doesn't seemsevere, but I need to examine your pupils."

Thus admonished, Vincent lay stoically while Father examinedhis eyes, tested his reflexes and palpated a tender spot above hisright ear.

"You have a nasty headache, I'm sure," Father said.

Vincent nodded. "And I'm very tired."

"That's to be expected after an injury of this sort," Fatherreassured him. "Have you noticed anything else?"

Vincent frowned. "People."

"People? What about them?"

"I don't... remember them." He turned his gaze to Father'sconcerned one. "I didn't remember you until I heard your name. ThenI knew who you were. You said something about Peter. I think Ishould know him, but I don't."

"Peter's one of our helpers," Father said kindly. "And a finephysician. He came, when you were first hurt, to help me make adiagnosis and to treat you." He patted Vincent's shoulder. "Sometemporary memory loss is common in injuries like yours. There's noreason to worry at this point."

His expression was open and sincere, and Vincent let out hisbreath. "Thank you."

"Now you should get some more rest."

Vincent started to close his eyes, then remembered something. "Father."

"Yes?" The old man paused in the act of folding up hisstethoscope.

"When I woke in the night... there was a woman here."

Father smiled. "Catherine. Yes. She would be here still if Ihadn't sent her off to get some sleep."

Catherine. He repeated the name in his mind. Catherine.

Father gazed at him patiently.

"She is very beautiful," he ventured, after a moment.

"Yes," Father agreed, tucking his stethoscope into the open bagon a nearby chair. "She is." He snapped the bag closed. "I'll haveMary in to sit with you," he said, and turned toward the door.

"Father."

Father swung back, expectant.

"What I said earlier, about people. About not being able toremember people..."

"Yes?"

Vincent swallowed. "Who is she, Father? Who isCatherine?"

Father blinked, then set his bag back on the chair. "You don'tremember her?" His voice was very gentle.

Apprehensive, Vincent gave a small shake of the head. "No. Not at all."

Father sighed heavily. "I'm very sorry to hear that, Vincent. Of all people..."

"But who is she, Father?"

Father looked away for a moment; when he looked back, his eyeswere full of sorrow. "Catherine is your wife."

Vincent's dreams were troubled as he pursued something thatseemed always out of reach. He woke with a start, jarring his headand the IV line that fed into his arm. Someone caught his wrist,steadying him.

"Are you all right?"

It was her again. Catherine. She kept his wrist, her fingerswarm and strong.

"Yes," he managed. "A dream..."

"You're awake now," she soothed him. "It's okay."

"Yes."

She studied him a moment, then nodded and placed his arm backon the bed. Her fingers lingered a moment, smoothing the hair thatgrew there, before she took her hand away.

"Catherine," he said. Her name tasted strange on his tongue,and he repeated it, seeking familiarity. "Catherine."

She looked momentarily hopeful.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I can't..."

"I know," she said softly. "Father told me."

"I'm sorry," he said again, acutely aware of the inadequacy ofthe words.

"Don't be sorry, Vincent. It isn't your fault." Her smilelooked forced. "Father says it's probably only temporary."

Vincent glanced around. The chamber was still illuminated withwhat he thought of as daytime brightness. "Where is Father?" heasked.

"He's gone to get something to eat," Catherine explained. "Why? Do you have pain? I can send for him..."

"No," he said quickly. "Just the same headache. Although itseems less, this time. I just wondered."

She put her hand out as if to touch his face, then paused anddrew it back. "Now it's my turn to be sorry," she said, with a laughthat sounded both rueful and false. "I don't want to make youuncomfortable."

Part of him was relieved that he would not have to conjure aresponse to a gesture that seemed wholly unfamiliar. Part of himregretted the loss of her touch.

She settled into a chair pulled close to the bed. "Can I getyou anything? Do anything?"

"No. But if I might..."

She gazed at him, her expression open and questioning.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable, either," he faltered. "I don't wish to hurt you."

"I know that," she said softly, and it gave him courage. "Whatdo you want, Vincent? Whatever it is, you may have it."

"May I look at you? Watch you?"

She looked faintly puzzled.

"I didn't recognize Father right away," he hastened to explain. "When I first woke up. I hoped..."

Understanding cleared her face; she smiled what might be thefirst genuine smile he had seen. "Of course." She reached for abook on a nearby chair. "Would you like me to read to you?"

His gaze went to the worn volume. "What is it?"

She turned it so he could see the spine. "GreatExpectations."

"Shakespeare."

She frowned. "No. It's Dickens. Charles Dickens."

That didn't sound right. "Are you sure? Shakespeare... andGreat Expectations. They seem to go together in my mind."

"I'm sure." She moved the book closer, so he could read theauthor's name. Charles Dickens.

"You're right," he admitted. "I don't know why I was socertain..."

"Father said there might be some confusion," she soothed. "It's understandable." She opened the book. "I've been reading tomyself while I've been sitting here, but I can start at the beginningagain, if you'd like."

He considered that. "Do I know the story?" he askedfinally.

He heard the soft catch of her breath before she replied. "Yes," she said, very gently. "You do."

"I don't remember."

She touched his hand and smiled that small, sorrowful smile. "Then I'll start at the beginning."

He studied her as she read, noting how the candlelight madehighlights in her hair and hollows under her jaw. She read well,imbuing the words with life and feeling, and he soon lost himself asmuch in the story as in the sound of her voice. Not the faintestmemory flickered.

When he woke the next time, he was alone, and his headache wasgone. Upon reflection, he decided he felt quite well, and pushedhimself up to sit on the side of his narrow cot.

Footsteps sounded at the chamber entry and Father came in. Hisexpression turned quickly to one of horror. "Vincent!" he began,hurrying forward.

Vincent plucked at the IV needle in his arm. "I want thisout," he announced. "And I'm hungry."

Father produced his little penlight. Vincent was used to thisby now, and endured the brief examination that followed. "You seemmuch better," Father conceded. "It always amazes me."

"What does?"

Father glanced at him. "The speed with which you recover frominjury," he said. "Let me see this needle."

A small patch on Vincent's arm had been shaved for the needleand the tape that held it in place, but the fur was growing backunderneath and when Father yanked off the tape, it hurt. "Ouch," hesaid mildly.

"Yes, I'm sorry," Father acknowledged absently, and removed theneedle, covering the spot with a square of gauze. "Let's tape thisin place..."

"Let's not." Vincent put his fingers over the gauze. "I'llhold it until it stops bleeding."

Father hesitated, then nodded. "Very well."

Vincent glanced around the utilitarian chamber. "Father?"

"Hmm?" Father scarcely glanced up from his bag.

"This surely isn't where I live?"

That got his full attention. "What? No, Vincent, of coursenot. This is the hospital chamber. But as you're so much better,I'll have someone come and help you to your own chamber."

"After I've eaten," Vincent prompted.

"Eaten? Yes, of course." Father smiled. "If your appetite'sback, a return to full health can't be far behind."

He reached up and tapped a rhythmic pattern on an overheadpipe; Vincent recognized it as a message, and struggled to decipherit. A summons...

A moment later, a freckle-faced boy appeared in the doorway. "Yes, Father?"

Vincent stared at the boy, waiting for the least tickle offamiliarity. It didn't come.

"Hello, Geoffrey," Father greeted. "Please tell William thatVincent is ready to resume regular meals and have him prepare a tray. And then find one or two of the men and see if they can help Vincentto his chamber in an hour or so."

"Sure," the boy agreed, flashing a smile. "Hi, Vincent," hetossed over his shoulder as he dashed out.

"Who was that?" Vincent asked.

Father frowned. "Still having trouble with your memory?"

Vincent nodded. "The boy clearly knew me, but I have no memoryof him."

"That was Geoffrey," Father explained. "He's been with us fornearly three years now."

"So I know him well," Vincent reflected. "I wonder why somethings seem familiar, while others do not."

"Head injuries are curious things," Father explained. "No twoinjuries are exactly alike, and different people are affected indifferent ways. And of course your injury is quite recent, so it'slikely you have not fully recovered, no matter how well youfeel."

Vincent nodded, and wished for more complete answers.

The needle mark on his arm had stopped seeping and he wasdiscarding the gauze when someone came in carrying a laden tray.

Ravenously intent on the food, it was a moment before Vincentrecognized the tray bearer.

Catherine.

She set the tray on the table beside his bed and smiled. "William's chicken and dumplings," she said. "One of yourfavorites."

Vincent didn't recall it as a favorite, but the aroma wasenticing, and he reached for the provided fork. One mouthful was allhe needed to provoke the memory. "Yes," he said. "I remember."

"Well," Father said with forced joviality, "it's encouragingthat you do remember some things."

Vincent was not so absorbed in eating that he didn't catchCatherine's small, hopeful look and Father's answering shake of thehead. Catherine's smile barely faltered, but Vincent knew herdisappointment. Despite his lingering hunger, he set down his fork. "I wish," he said softly, for her ears alone, "I could choose thethings I remember. I would gladly trade the memory of William's finecooking for a single one of you."

She blushed and he noted, quite impartially, how the warm colorsuited her, as did the shy glance up through feathered lashes. "Iknow," she whispered in reply. "Thank you."

When he had finished his meal, two men entered the chamber. Heknew them instantly. "Kanin!" he cried. "And Cullen."

Catherine's flinch was almost imperceptible; no one else hadnoticed. He wanted to speak to her, but there were no words ofcomfort he could give, and he didn't want to embarrass her.

Kanin approached and offered a strong arm. "Come on," he said. "Let's take you home."

Vincent wanted to refuse the help, but the truth was, his legswere maddeningly unsteady. With Kanin on one side and Cullensupporting the other, he managed the distance to his own chamber withonly one pause to rest.

Once there, though, he resisted their attempts to guide himtoward the bed. "All I've done recently is sleep," he saidstolidly.

Kanin glanced back for Father's approval, then altered courseto to a massive carved wooden chair. He and Cullen lowered Vincentgently and, with murmured goodbyes, withdrew. Father spent a fewmoments fussing, offering cushions and making sure he wascomfortable, then sighed. "Don't overdo, Vincent," he warned. Heglanced across the chamber, to where Catherine waited. "You'll keepan eye on him, of course."

She nodded, and with a sound that was suspiciously like anexasperated snort, Father went out.

"He's not very happy with you," she observed wryly, once Fatherwas safely out of earshot.

"No," he agreed, amused. "He seldom is, when I'mrecuperating."

"You remember that?" she asked wistfully, then offered a wansmile. "I'm sorry. Can I get anything for you? Do anything?"

"No, thank you."

"Would you like me to read?"

He remembered the pleasure he'd found in her voice, but after amoment's consideration, shook his head. "I believe I'd rather justsit here."

She studied him a moment. "All right. I do have some work Ineed to finish." She opened a tan leather and tweed briefcase andbrought out a thick file of papers.

Vincent watched as she settled herself at the round table inthe center of the room and began to either take notes or transcribesomething from a fat blue folder. "Excuse me," he said after amoment.

She looked up.

"What is it you're doing?"

"I'm working." At his blank look, she elaborated. "I'm goingover a deposition from a witness to a bank robbery. Establishing aline of questioning for when the case goes to trial next week."

"Oh." Try as he might, the reply made no sense.

She continued to look at him, her expression unreadable.

"May I ask... what is it that you do?"

Something flickered across her face and vanished just asquickly. "I'm an attorney," she said quietly. "I work for theDistrict Attorney's office."

He hesitated. Clearly, this conversation pained her, but heneeded to know. He needed to establish a background from whichmemories might grow. "In the city?" he persisted. "Up there?"

"Yes." Her voice was stronger now, and that steadied him.

"I thought you lived down here," he ventured.

"I do. Most of the time." Her smile was wry again. "Icommute. Much to Father's dismay."

Even with his fractured memories, he had no difficultyunderstanding that. "I'm surprised he allows it."

She looked down, and for a long moment he thought she wasn'tgoing to answer. Finally she did, her voice once again low andrestrained. "He allows it because of you... because you insisted. Because you knew how important my work is to me..." Her voicetrailed away.

Vincent guessed that in an earlier time he might have gone toher, comforted her. Now he sat, feeling awkward. "Perhaps," hesuggested after a moment, "you should finish your work."

She nodded without looking up; he wondered unhappily if shewere crying. Soon, though, her pencil began moving again and heturned away.

The chamber was filled with a myriad of fascinating objectsbegging for his attention. His gaze wandered slowly from one to thenext, awash in the memories they provoked.

A glance at Catherine showed her absorbed in her work, so hepushed himself to his feet and began a slow circuit of the room. He'd found the little jukebox in a dumpster behind a renovated dinerwhen he was just a boy. It had been one of his first forays up top;his fear, the dank smell of the alley, and his glee at finding thejukebox intact all returned in a rush as he ran a hand over thecurved glass front.

Beside it lay a brass letter opener, its wooden handleintricately carved. A Winterfest gift from Cullen. As an apology,he thought, but he couldn't quite recall what Cullen had to apologizefor.

A shelf full of polished stone and glass paperweights made himpause. It seemed they should be significant, but he had norecollection of them. Beside the shelf of paperweights was adressing table; a framed mirror hung on the wall above it. Themirror seemed out of place, as well.

His legs were trembling with fatigue, so he lowered himselfgingerly to the delicate bench in front of the table. His ownreflection gazed back from the silvered glass.

Nothing he saw there surprised him, even though he'd had noclear memory of his own appearance. He studied himself for a moment,relearning the high, prominent cheekbones, the flattened, furred noseand the padded cleft lip. Not human, but then, he hadn't expectedhimself to be.

This was Catherine's dressing table, he realized suddenly. Hermirror. The hairbrush under his fingers was hers, as well. Uneasily, he glanced toward the table. She had put down her penciland was watching him.

"Forgive me," he faltered. "I didn't mean to pry into yourthings..."

She brushed his apology aside with a small wave of her hand. "Did you know, before you sat down..." she began, and broke off. Even from here he could see hot color flooding her cheeks. "I'msorry, I..."

"No," he said, and pushed to his feet. He crossed to the tableand put his hand over hers. "Please. What did you wish to askme?"

She looked away, biting her lip. He waited and after a momentshe looked up. "I wondered if you remembered... the way you look. The way you are."

"The way I look... not exactly. But I knew it would bestrange." He smiled and released her hand to spread his fingers forher to see. "There were these, you see."

She lifted her hand, then aborted the movement and put it downagain. "Your hands," she said, and there was an odd note of strainin her voice. But her smile, when it came, was genuine, if a bitsad. "I'm glad," she said simply. "I was afraid you'd forgotten,and would be shocked."

"No," he said slowly. "I am comfortable with who I am." Heglanced once more at his hands. "What I am."

"Good." This time she did touch his hand briefly.

"Catherine!"

The voice calling was young, and probably male, Vincentdecided.

"Come in, Kipper!" Catherine called back.

A boy in his early teens entered, carrying a laden tray. "Father didn't think you should try to come to supper," he said,setting the tray on the table, in a space Catherine hastily cleared. "He said he'd be in to examine the patient later on." The boy's darkeyes twinkled with mirth as he reported this.

Catherine smiled. "Thank you, Kipper."

"I remember that boy," Vincent said, after he left. "I knowhim."

"Well, of course you do," Catherine said. She offered him acovered dish. "Hungry?"

"Ravenous," he acknowledged, even though he'd eaten such ashort time earlier. He took a seat across from her.

The meal was more of the chicken and dumplings he'd hadearlier, but he didn't mind the repetition. Somewhere in the back ofhis mind was an image of a rotund, florid-faced man presiding over alarge cauldron; it wouldn't be practical to prepare special mealswhen there were so many to feed.

After supper, Catherine took the tray and dishes back to thekitchen. While she was gone, Father came for the promisedexamination. As Vincent expected, Father grumbled, but pronouncedhim healing. "Have Catherine call me if you develop any symptoms inthe night," he said.

Vincent promised and accepted the kiss Father placed on hisforehead before he left.

The unaccustomed activity of the afternoon had tired him. Witha sigh, he lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes.

He woke with the instinctive knowledge that several hours hadpassed. The lighting in the chamber was different - the tallcandelabra on the table had been extinguished, and fewer candlesburned in other places.

A soft sound made him turn his head. Catherine was seated atthe dressing table, her back to him, drawing the silver-backed brushthrough her hair.

As he watched, she put the brush down and rose, reaching toextinguish a nearby candle. She was clad in a long pale gown thatmoved when she did, outlining the curve of her hip. She turned toanother of the candles, and he could clearly make out the soft swellof her breast beneath the folds of the gown.

He swallowed and looked away, uncomfortably aware of how narrowthe chamber's only bed really was. Already his body was stirring,responding to the sight of her.

She was his wife, he reminded himself. Surely she would expectto sleep here, beside him. The room seemed suddenly close and hewondered if he could lie beside her all night, feeling her warm bodypressed against him, and not respond.

"Vincent?"

He turned instinctively, reacting to her calling of his name. She stood a few feet away, looking soft and sleepy and altogether toodesirable.

"You're awake," she said softly.

"Yes." His voice rasped unpleasantly, his throat dry fromsleep and from the sight of her.

"Can I get you something?" she asked.

"Water," he requested. He propped himself on an elbow andsipped at the cup she brought, gathering his thoughts. "Catherine,"he said, as she took the drained cup and set it aside. "I must speakwith you."

She turned back, surprised. "What is it?"

He was hard pressed not to let his gaze sweep down the lengthof her. "I don't wish to hurt you more than I already have," hebegan, feeling clumsy and insensitive.

"I know that," she said softly, and came closer, obviouslyintending to sit on the edge of the bed. She stopped when heflinched. "What? What's wrong?"

"I am sorry I do not remember you," he said, rushing now to getit said. "I do not remember... loving you."

"I know," she said again, and this time he knew the effort itcost her to keep her voice steady.

"I cannot... Catherine, the bed is narrow. With you beside me,I cannot..."

"Vincent," she said softly, horrified. "I'm your wife."

"I know," he said miserably. "It is what I have been told. But my heart... my heart does not know. It wouldn't be fair. Not toyou. Not if I don't love you."

She stood beside the bed, wide-eyed.

"Catherine, please," he said. "Don't..."

"It's all right," she interrupted, though her eyes shimmeredwith unshed tears. "It's all right. I understand."

"Do you?" he asked, aching with the pain he was so clearlycausing.

"Yes," she said, her voice breaking. "I do. You wouldn't bethe man I love if you could behave any differently."

She picked up a long robe from the back of a nearby chair. "There's a guest chamber nearby," she faltered.

He pushed himself up from the pillows. "Catherine, no. Thisis your chamber, as well. I'll go."

She shook her head, smiling that small, sad smile he was comingto know so well. "It hasn't been my chamber for long," she said. "You grew up here. All your memories are here. I'll be fine. Really."

He studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "Verywell."

She shrugged into the robe and paused. "Goodnight,Vincent."

He thought he could feel her heart breaking. He pushed to hisfeet and stepped close. "Goodnight, Catherine," he said softly, andbent to kiss her cheek. When he drew back, tears glistened on herface. "You'd better go," he whispered.

She nodded once, jerkily, and fled the chamber.

When he woke the next morning, it was to find Mary ensconced ina rocking chair, knitting placidly. She looked as if she'd beenthere all night.

"Good morning," he murmured, surprised.

"Good morning, Vincent," she answered cheerily. "How do youfeel?"

"Fine," he answered, and sat up. "No headache at all."

"Good." She got up and tucked her knitting into a woven bagand put the bag on her arm. "Since you're up, I'll be going."

"Wait."

She paused expectantly.

"Why are you here? I mean..."

"I know what you mean," she assured him. "Catherine came bylast night and asked me to look in on you. I knew Father wouldn'twant you left alone so soon after the accident, so I just came alongand brought my knitting."

Guilt assailed him. "All night?"

"Of course," she said, smiling. "I do it when the children areill, and you were one of my first children down here, Vincent." Sheran an affectionate hand over the top of his head. "I'll tell thekitchen to send you some breakfast."

After breakfast, Father came in for the inevitable examination. After peering at Vincent's eyes and checking his reflexes, hegrunted and sat back. "Well, you're fit enough," he pronounced. "How's your memory?"

"Still scattered," Vincent confessed. "Some things I remember,some I don't."

Father patted his shoulder. "Well, we'll give it some moretime. Meanwhile, do you remember where to find the bathingchambers?"

Vincent thought a moment. "Yes," he said, finally. "Beyondthe kitchens."

"That's right," Father approved. "And I suggest you takeyourself there, at once."

Vincent hadn't bathed since before his accident, so Father'ssuggestion was an excellent one. "I will," he promised.

"Good. Will you need help?"

Vincent shook his head. "I'm much stronger this morning," hesaid.

"Very well. Call on the pipes if you change your mind." Father tucked his stethoscope in a pocket of his vest and wentout.

Vincent crossed to a tall armoire against the far wall of thechamber. A bath meant fresh clothing for afterwards. He pulled openthe double doors and froze. A subtle, feminine scent assailed hisnostrils.

He touched one of the garments hanging there. A skirt. Besideit hung a pale blue sweater, patched with leather and far too smallfor him. A quick examination confirmed his guess - everything herewas women's clothing. Catherine's clothing. Guiltily he recalledthe stricken look on her face last night. He pushed the doors of thearmoire closed and stepped away. The last thing she needed was himpawing through her things.

A smaller armoire, previously unnoticed, stood in a corner. His own familiar clothes hung inside. He chose a shirt, sweater,vest, and sturdy corduroy trousers, then rummaged through a drawerfor underwear and socks. Boots were lined up neatly in the bottom ofthe armoire and he plucked up a pair at random. Taking a towel froma shelf and tucking it under his arm, he left the chamber.

The bathing pools were deserted, and unexpectedly warm. Heluxuriated for a while, letting the water soothe away the stiffnessof inactivity. Eventually, though, he had to get out.

The wheeze of an unoiled hinge alerted him that his chamber wasoccupied before he was fully inside. He paused in the doorway.

Catherine stood by the larger armoire, going through theclothing that hung there. Several garments were draped over herarm.

He cleared his throat softly.

She jumped, and whirled to face him. "You startled me." Shelooked as awkward as he felt.

"I'm sorry. I didn't expect you here."

She looked away. "I came to get some of my things. I didn'tthink you'd mind..."

"Of course not. The things are yours. The chamber, aswell."

"Thank you." She hesitated. "You're feeling better thismorning?" she asked finally.

"Much better," he assured her. "Stronger."

Again that sad smile. "Good." She gazed at him a moment, thenseemed to collect herself abruptly, turning back to the armoire. "Well, I'd better finish here so I can leave you..."

"Catherine."

At the sound of her name, she stopped, but didn't turn.

"Please. I would like it very much if you could sit with me. Talk with me."

He could see the pain in the set of her shoulders, feel it inher hesitation. He saw her take a long, shaky breath before sheturned. Her face was impassive, but he could see the hurt in hereyes.

"Of course," she agreed softly. "Whenever you like."

He gestured toward a chair. "Now?"

She gave a small nod, pushed the armoire door closed, anddraped the clothes in her arms over the bench at her dressing tablebefore coming to sit where he'd indicated. "What would you like totalk about?"

He sat gingerly opposite her, keeping the bulk of the tablebetween them. "You. Us. The things I don't remember."

She took another deep, steadying breath. "All right. Whereshall I begin?"

"Tell me about you," he suggested. "Who you are. Yourchildhood, your family, your friends."

She did. It pained him to hear of her mother's death while shewas still a child, and even more to hear of her father's more recentone.

"And you have no brothers or sisters?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No. Just me."

"It saddens me to think you have no family," he said gently,and was startled by her sharply drawn breath, the sudden tears in hereyes. He reached across the table to grasp her hand. "What is it,Catherine? What have I said?"

She shook her head, but he persisted.

"Oh, Vincent," she said at last. "Don't you know? You are myfamily. Were."

It was her change of verb tense that wounded most deeply. Already she was distancing herself from him. From her pain. And hecould do nothing but hold her hand, to lend her this small comfortwhile she wept.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, when she had composed herself. "Ididn't mean to do that."

"You must not apologize," he said. "I can only imagine yourdistress. I have no wish to hurt you, Catherine. You must knowthat."

"I do," she answered. "That hasn't changed about you, Vincent. You haven't changed." She bit her lip. "Father said, with headinjuries, there's often a personality change. That we should begrateful that didn't happen to you. Just your memories..."

"Not all my memories," he tried to console her. "Onlysome."

"Only ones with me in them," she answered, and attempted asmile.

"Others, too," he reminded her. "But it's you I want to hearabout. How did we meet? Were you a helper?"

She shook her head. "I was attacked - my face slashed, beaten. They left me in the park. You found me and brought me here. Yousaved my life, Vincent." She took a breath. "You and Father nursedme until I was well and then you took me home."

"Up there."

"Yes. And I didn't see you again for eight months."

"A very long time," he observed neutrally.

"Yes. But it gave me the time I needed to change myself...change the way I lived, the things I did. That's when I startedworking for the District Attorney's office. I started trying to helpother people, instead of spending all my time - and Daddy's money -indulging myself."

"You wouldn't..." he began, an instinctive protest.

"Oh, yes," she insisted. "I did. I was. You would have hatedme then, Vincent. But knowing you - knowing you had faith in me -made me want to do better."

He wished he had memories of her then, although it sounded asif he hadn't really known her until later. Until after she'dchanged. Though he didn't really think a person could change as muchas she'd claimed to. "How long ago?" he murmured. "That I foundyou."

Her voice grew soft again. "It'll be four years in April. Thetwelfth."

He nodded. "And we've been married...?"

"Four months. A little more than four months."

That surprised him. "A long engagement?" he ventured. To hisastonishment, she actually laughed. It was the first time he'd heardher do so.

"No. A long courtship, I suppose you could say." Herexpression changed, sobered. "You were very concerned about yourdifferences, Vincent. About how I would react, about what you mightdo to me. It took a long time for you to overcome that."

He considered that for a long moment. "I have no sense ofthat," he said finally. "No sense of reservation, of doubt."

"Good," she said. "You've kept that. I'm glad."

And she really was, despite the sadness etched on her face. Heknew it. "You have a generous heart, Catherine," he saidsuddenly.

She went ashen. He reached for her hand, but she had alreadymoved out of his reach. Her voice, when she finally spoke, quavered. "So I've been told," she said, with visible effort. "I have to gonow, Vincent. I promised Mary..."

"Of course," he agreed softly, not believing the excuse. Mary,he was sure, had gone straight to sleep after sitting with him allnight.

Catherine gathered up the clothing she'd taken from the armoireand exited the chamber without looking back.

Vincent's body healed quickly and within a few days, he'dcompletely recovered his strength. His memory remained fragmented,though, with some things rushing back at the slightest reminder,while others remained bewilderingly blank.

For Catherine's sake, he hurt. He didn't doubt she loved him;it showed on her face when she looked at him, was echoed in thesorrow he knew she carried with her all the time. He ached toremember loving her, but no matter how much time he spent with her,or how many events she recalled for him, the memories refused tocome.

She showed astonishing strength in the face of this, rarelyshowing her loss. He watched her, sometimes, with the children,seeing how patient she was, how quick to praise an accomplishment oroffer a hug and kiss in comfort.

As soon as Father pronounced him fit, she returned to her job,leaving the tunnels early in the morning and often not returninguntil long after supper. He wondered if these hours were usual, orbecause of the time she'd taken off when he was hurt, or if she wasjust burying herself in her work in an attempt to forget.

She was there, though, on a Saturday a few weeks after hisaccident, helping Father catalogue a half-dozen cartons of books sentdown by a helper. Vincent's role was to heft the heavy boxes onto atable and empty them out for the sorting.

They were hard at it when a visitor entered the study and swungwith studied nonchalance down the narrow wrought iron stairs.

Vincent stared a moment. The newcomer's hair straggled overhis collar and he was dressed in topside clothing; a dark beard allbut hid the three long scars on his cheek. "Devin," he breathed.

"The prodigal returns," Devin agreed, and grinned. "Again. Hiya, Vincent. I got a letter that made it sound like you were atdeath's door, but I see Peter exaggerates." He made an elaborateshow of looking Vincent up and down. "Of course, the letter had tobe forwarded twice, so I just got it."

"Devin," Vincent repeated, and stepped forward to take hisbrother in his arms. "It is good to see you."

"Good to see you, too," Devin answered, pounding him on theback. He stepped back and looked around. "Hello, Father."

"Devin," Father greeted, carefully. "We've wondered whereyou've been."

"Everywhere," Devin said expansively. "I guess I should havebeen better about keeping in touch though, huh?"

Father sighed. "At least you leave forwarding addresses now,"he said. "That's improvement. It's good to see you, son." Theyembraced, and Devin turned to Catherine.

"Hey, Chandler."

It was an instant before Vincent realized Chandler must be hersurname, and Devin was using it as an affectionate nickname. Howlittle he knew of her, even now!

"Hi, Devin," she answered. They hugged carefully and Devinplaced a circumspect kiss on her cheek.

"How's my baby brother treating you?" he asked. "If you haveany complaints, I'll beat him up for you."

Catherine smiled. "No complaints," she said, and Vincentthought that perhaps he was the only one who could hear thewistfulness in her voice. Devin certainly didn't notice.

"Good," he said, and turned back toward Vincent. "So you'reall better?"

"Physically, he has recovered," Father answered for him.

"Physically?" Devin repeated, concern washing over his face. "What does that mean?"

"He has trouble with his memory," Father said. "His childhood,for instance, has gaps in it. Perhaps you could share some of yourmemories..."

"Remind him of all the trouble we got into, you mean?" Devinasked with a grin. "I'd be glad to."

Father sent to the kitchen for tea and cake. By the time itarrived, Devin was deep into his role as memory prompter, and Vincentfound scene after childhood scene flooding back.

"We used to have mudball fights in the Long Tunnel, remember,Vincent?" Devin asked, reaching for a slice of William's poundcake.

"Yes. And the midnight snowball fights in the park," Vincentcountered eagerly.

"In the park?" Father broke in, horrified. "At midnight?"

"All the time," Devin assured him solemnly. "It was great fun,wasn't it, Vincent?"

"Great fun," Vincent agreed.

Father looked ill.

Catherine, her slice of cake untouched before her, sipped teain silence.

"And who was it that taught us all how to roller skate?" Devinasked. "He was a helper - tall guy. Remember, Vincent?"

"Edwin," Vincent answered, after a moment's thought. "Heworked at a skating rink and used to borrow the rental skates forus..."

"Excuse me," Catherine murmured. She pushed back her chair andhurried up the stairs.

Vincent stared after her. He didn't know how he knew, but hewas certain she was upset. "Excuse me a moment," he said, andfollowed her.

"What's going on?" he heard Devin ask. He didn't linger tohear Father's reply.

He didn't have to think about which way to go. He turned leftand hadn't gone more than a dozen paces before he found her.

She was pressed into a niche in the passageway, shouldershunched and hands supporting her bowed head. She was weeping.

"Catherine?" he asked tentatively.

She drew back from him.

That she was rejecting him seemed clear; that she neededcomfort was just as evident. He hesitated only a moment before hestepped forward and gathered her to his heart.

She offered slight resistance, then melted into his arms,clinging to him and crying, as he held her and stroked her hair. Even when there were no more tears she stayed there, resting againsthim.

"Better?" he asked softly.

"Yes," she answered, without moving. "Thank you. I didn'tmean to do that."

"Of course not," he agreed. "Can you tell me?"

She shook her head in mute protest.

"Please. I want to know. I want to help you."

He could feel her girding herself. She drew a long breath; herhands tightened on the folds of his vest. "You and Devin. So happy,exchanging childhood memories. You remembered him, Vincent. Youremembered the helper who used to bring you skates. And all of asudden, it just hurt so much..."

Of course it had. How insensitive of him not to think of it. She'd sat there quietly for over half an hour, listening to themreminisce. "You know," he said quietly, "that if I could remember bysimply willing it, I would."

She nodded against his chest. "I know. It's not yourfault."

"And it isn't fair that you should bear the consequences," hecommented. "But it is so."

"Yes." She straightened, but didn't step back. Misery andhope warred in her eyes. "Vincent. Would you do something forme?"

"Of course. Anything."

"Would you kiss me?"

They were married. There must have been kisses between them,though he didn't remember any of them. Didn't remember kissing awoman, ever, in the way she wanted to be kissed. What if he didn'tremember how?

Naked pleading was on her face; as he hesitated, it faltered. He saw hurt resignation come into her eyes in the instant before shelooked away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't..."

He couldn't bear to disappoint her again. "No," he saidsoftly, and cupped her face in his hands, turning it up to him.

Her lips were soft and warm; she tasted faintly of pepperminttea. And if his mind didn't remember how to kiss, it seemed hisinstincts did. For a long moment, he was simply lost in thesensation. When rational thought surfaced, it was to the realizationthat her arms were around his neck, that his were holding her hardagainst him, that his body was responding to the fervor of the kissin a most basic way. It took real effort to tear his mouth fromhers. "Catherine..." he managed, almost gasping. "We mustnot..."

"Why? Vincent, I love you..." She let her voice trail away. A deep breath, and the control he was accustomed to seeing in herreturned. "Of course," she said blankly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he began.

She pushed away from him and paused in the mouth of the littlealcove. "I'm sorry," she said again, not looking at him. "I have tobe by myself for a while. Make my apologies to Father andDevin."

Before he could formulate a reply, she was gone. This time, helet her go.

Devin and Father were deep in conversation, but looked up whenhe came in. Devin bounced to his feet. "Father told me," he saidbluntly. "Is she okay?"

Vincent came down the stairs and dropped heavily into a chair. "I don't know," he said tiredly. "I think she is. For now."

Devin resumed his seat. "Was it me? Did I say something or dosomething...?"

Vincent shook his head. "It's not your fault, Devin. This hasbeen building..."

He glanced at Father, who nodded agreement. "This has beenvery hard on Catherine," he said. "Difficult for all of us, ofcourse, but hardest for her."

"Naturally," Devin agreed. "You don't remember anything abouther?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Nothing from before," Vincent said. "It worries me."

Father shifted in his chair. "Well, as a matter of fact, Peterand I have been discussing that, Vincent."

Vincent didn't like the sound of this. "Discussing what?"

"The pattern of your memory loss. We fear there is somepermanent injury to your brain."

Vincent became very still; even his thoughts seemed to grind toa halt. Brain injury. The very words were chilling.

"Peter's arranged for the use of an MRI scanner; I was going totalk with you about it this evening."

"MRI?" Devin questioned. "I thought they did CAT scans onheads."

"They do," Father said. "But Peter informs me that an MRIactually gives better detail than a CAT scan. And in any case, it'sthe MRI machine he has access to."

"When would you do this?" Vincent asked quietly.

"Tomorrow night."

The procedure would require him to go above. To a hospital? Adoctor's office? Father must think this test very important to allowhim to take such a risk. "Does Catherine know?"

Father nodded. "We consulted her as soon as the machine becameavailable," he said. "This sort of medical testing is notinexpensive, Vincent. It's certainly beyond our resources. Peterwould have absorbed the cost, of course, but that would have upsetCatherine needlessly."

"I will not object," Vincent said quietly. "It is good ofher."

"She can afford it," Devin said prosaically. "Besides, you'reher husband, even if you don't remember. What else do you expect herto do?"

Vincent didn't see Catherine again until almost time to go uptop for the MRI. She slipped into the study as Father was wrappingup a long list of instructions to Mary. "And of course you know howto reach us if you need to."

"Yes, Father," she said patiently. "You'll only be gone a fewhours."

"Yes, of course," he agreed. "Ah, Catherine. I was about tosend someone after you."

She smiled slightly. "I'm here," she said. She had regainedthe poise and composure that had slipped so badly the day before. Vincent could only guess at the reserves on which she must be drawingto present such a facade; inside, he knew, she was terrified.

Devin had already asserted his intention of going along, and ofcourse Father wasn't to be left behind, so the four of them set out. They travelled at Father's pace, which should have left them plentyof breath for conversation, but the trip was strangely silent.

Near the top, a pair of massive pipes ran parallel; their routerequired them to cross from the top of one to the other, a distanceof about three feet. It looked like an easy leap; Vincent had thefeeling he'd done it a hundred times.

He jumped easily, landing lightly and with perfect balance onthe rounded top of the pipe. "Here, Father," he said, reaching back. "Let me help you."

Father took his hand, wobbled a couple of times, and then madean awkward leap. Vincent hauled on his arm, pulling him upright, andheld on until he was sure Father had regained his balance. "I'msorry," he apologized. "We shouldn't have come this way."

"Nonsense," Father retorted. "I'm not an invalid yet. Devin,hand me my stick..."

Devin passed the walking stick across the gap. Father took ittestily. "Come on," he urged. "Let's make room."

Obediently Vincent moved along the pipe, leaving space forCatherine and Devin to cross. Devin sprang across with an ease bornof practice; Vincent remembered seeing him cross it many times as aboy.

"Wait." Catherine's voice was thin and thready. Vincentlooked back. He hadn't expected her to have trouble; he'd come tothink of her as strong and capable. A glance at her feet identifiedthe problem, though. She'd come straight from her work, and wasstill wearing the high-heeled shoes Vincent found soincomprehensible.

He shifted, intending to go back and help her, but it was toolate. With a reproachful glance his way, Devin offered his hand. She accepted it, leaping across with far more grace than Father hadmanaged. Devin shifted his grip to her arm and kept it there,steadying her as they sidled along the curved pipe. Vincent did thesame for Father and wondered why it bothered him that it wasn'tCatherine's arm he was holding.

At last they reached the upper level and stopped at a dull anddented steel door.

Father tapped a pattern on the door. A moment later it creakedopen; Peter Alcott was on the other side. "Good, you made it," hesaid. "This way."

Vincent felt ill at ease in the panelled, carpeted hallways ofthe office building, and even more so in the close confines of theelevator, but he followed without comment until Peter pushed open oneof the heavy doors lining the corridor.

Inside, a man waited for them. "Vincent, you rememberDennis?"

Vincent didn't, but he nodded politely to the slight, beardedman at Peter's side.

"Hi, Vincent," the man said cheerfully. "Hear you're havingtrouble with your head."

"Yes," Vincent acknowledged cautiously.

"Come on back and we'll take a look."

The test itself was painless and took surprisingly little time;Vincent had thought it would be a much more complex process. When itwas over, Peter clapped him on the shoulder. "I have a friend who'sagreed to interpret it for us," he said. "Without too manyquestions. I should have the results tomorrow."

"Your office, Peter?" Catherine asked quietly. She and Devinhad waited together, Devin lounging against the wall, Catherinestanding stiff and tense, for the duration of the test.

"My home office," Peter agreed. "About eight o'clock, ifthat's convenient for all of you."

They agreed it was, and retraced their steps. Vincent didn'tbreathe easily until they were safely in the tunnels once more.

"That man," he said, as they began their downward journey. "Dennis. Do I know him?"

Father stopped. "He's been a helper for years, Vincent," hesaid slowly. "Last winter, when his wife Rosemary was ill, youlooked in on her, took her books and some of William's lemon cake. Don't you remember?"

Vincent shook his head. "Rosemary... that sounds familiar,somehow. But I don't remember Dennis at all."

Catherine was staring at him. He had the uneasy feeling hercomposure had been undermined once more. He stood back to let Devingo ahead and assist Father, and fell into step beside her.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

She nodded with too much vigor. "Fine."

"Father says you helped arrange for this testing." Heswallowed. "Are meeting the financial obligations created. I wishto thank you for that."

Her eyes flashed. "What did you think I'd do, Vincent?"

Her vehemence startled him. "I don't know. I just wish you toknow that I am grateful."

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I know you are,Vincent. But in truth, I didn't do it so much for you as I did forme." Her voice quavered and she fought for control. "Because I haveto know."

The next evening, Vincent, Devin, and Father entered Peter'shouse through its own tunnel entrance. Peter greeted them there andled them up two flights of stairs to his home office, where chairswere lined up for them. Catherine, who had come directly from work,was waiting.

To Vincent, she seemed unnaturally pale. He was glad whenFather and Devin took the two chairs on the left, leaving him to sitbeside Catherine on the right. She looked terrified.

After a moment of covertly watching her, he reached across thesmall space between them and took her hand. It was cold andunresponsive, but after a moment she curled her fingers around his,her grip so tight it almost hurt.

Peter pulled out a wide folder and produced what looked likeenlarged photographs. He propped the first one up and pointed withhis pen. Father and Devin both leaned forward for a closer look.

"See this area?" Peter asked.

To Vincent, it looked like a formless mass of shadows andlight, but Father and Devin both nodded. Catherine, beside him,hadn't moved.

"Right here..." Peter's pen tapped the paper. "You can see it. There's a tiny area of damage. My friend is certain of it."

Father let his breath out in a long sigh. "Yes, I see it,too," he said. "I was afraid of that."

Devin cast an unhappy look in Vincent's direction.

"What does it mean, Peter?" Vincent asked.

"It means there's definitely some brain damage, Vincent," Petersaid gently. "You are very fortunate in that only a small portion ofthe brain was permanently affected and that your cognitive and motorskills were not involved. There's only this partial retrogradeamnesia."

"Will I ever remember?" he asked.

Peter glanced at Father, who gave a small nod. "Given theevidence here," he tapped the photograph, "and the consistency of theway your memories have returned - you either remember at the firstreminder or you don't remember at all - I have to say no. The thingsthat are lost are lost forever."

"Forever?" That was Catherine, her voice small.

"I'm sorry, Cathy," Peter said gently.

She closed her eyes briefly, then took a deep breath andstraightened. She extricated her hand from Vincent's and stood up. He came to his feet, as well.

"Thank you, Peter," she said softly. "That's what I needed toknow."

The look she turned on Father was full of regret. "I won't begoing back with you, Father. I can't. I hope you understand..."

"Dear Catherine," Father began. "I know how painful..."

"No," she interrupted gently. "I don't think anyone canimagine how painful this is. And I can't do it anymore. I have totry to put my life back together now, and I can't do it downthere."

"Yes, of course," Father agreed, after a moment's reflection. "I do understand."

"I know you do," she said, and bent to kiss his cheek. "If youneed anything, you know where to find me."

He returned the kiss and patted her shoulder as shestraightened.

She gave a crooked smile. "Devin."

He smiled back. "Guess I'll be seeing you around, huh,Chandler?"

"Maybe so," she said. "Vincent."

He hadn't moved - was afraid to move. "Yes?"

She gazed at him for what seemed an inordinately long time,although it couldn't really have been more than a few seconds. Hereyes filled with tears. "I will always love you," she said softly,her voice breaking. "Know that. Always."

Before he could formulate a reply, she was gone.

Her absence pressed on him; he had to struggle not to boltafter her.

Father turned to Peter. "You were expecting that," heaccused.

Peter nodded. "She discussed it with me," he said. "It wasn'twhat she wanted to do, Jacob. You know that. But being down there,under the circumstances, was just too much."

"It's my fault," Vincent said roughly. "I've driven her fromher home..."

"No, Vincent," Devin said at once. "Brain injuries don't worklike that. They're not anyone's fault."

"But if I could have remembered..."

"You can't remember. You will never remember," Father said. "That part of your brain has been destroyed, and the memories alongwith it."

"It's not fair," Vincent protested. "That Catherine should behurt by all this..."

"No, it's not fair," Peter agreed, his voice sad. "But that'sthe way it is."

Knowing the boundaries of his memories should have brought himpeace, but instead he was stalked by a steadily growing restlessness. Hard physical labor didn't quell it; neither did the long walks hetook through the tunnels, or all-night forays into the park.

"For heaven's sake, sit down, Vincent!" Father chided a fewdays later. "You haven't been this restless since..." He broke offabruptly.

"Since when, Father?"

Father looked away and didn't answer.

"Tell me, Father! Since when?"

Father sighed. "Since before."

"Before what?"

"Before... Catherine. Before you knew her."

Vincent cast back through his scattered memories and came upwith an image of himself, filled with the same aimless energy heharbored now. "I remember. As if I was looking for something, butdidn't know what."

Father nodded grimly. "And then you found it."

"I found her. In the park."

Father looked up sharply. "Vincent?"

He shook his head. "I don't remember it. She told me. Shetold me many things, but I don't remember any of them."

"No," Father agreed, and removed his glasses to rub the bridgeof his nose. "And you won't. Vincent, I'm so sorry."

"I am not in need of your sorrow, Father," he answered. "Onecannot miss what one has never known."

"But you have known it," Father reminded softly. "That is whatmakes this such a tragedy."

"It's as if I'd never known it," Vincent countered. "Yoursorrow should be for Catherine, who knows what she has lost, and whois alone now with her grief."

"Perhaps you should visit her," Father suggested. "It might begood for both of you."

Vincent shook his head. "No."

Father snorted. "For years, you courted danger and deprived meof sleep by visiting her balcony at all hours. And now..."

"Now she needs freedom to reshape her life," Vincent saidsharply. "My presence there can only interfere with that."

"Your presence would comfort her," Father suggested.

"My presence would prolong her grief by reminding her of whatshe has lost," Vincent answered. "I have hurt her too much already. I cannot... I will not... add to that."

"You know," Father mused, "for all that I was so hard on herwhen your relationship first began, I came to love Catherine like adaughter. I miss having her here."

"I know," Vincent answered softly. "So do I."

He found a shelf full of old journals and pored over thepassages dealing with Catherine, but they might have been written bya stranger. The words stirred no whisper of memory, but filled himwith a nebulous longing that only served to increase hisrestlessness.

Days passed, but instead of subsiding, his restivenessincreased. To Father's dismay, he chose to vent this restivenessabove; more often than not, he found himself high above the city,claiming some enviable and dangerous vantage point as his own.

But he could never be long content taking in the view. A vaguesense of urgency always intruded, driving him onward. He wished heunderstood it.

That, and the deep, pervasive sense of sorrow that hauntedhim.

"You still haven't seen her?" Father asked, two weeks after theMRI.

Vincent shook his head. He didn't want to argue this issueagain.

"I must say, Vincent, I find your attitude appalling. Anyonecan see you're miserable."

"How can I be miserable?" he retorted. "I've lostnothing."

Father peered at him over his glasses. "I'm not so sure."

Vincent frowned. Father was talking in riddles. He wasdrawing breath to question him when a sudden, unexpected wave ofterror washed over him. He stiffened and clutched the edge of thetable.

Father swept his glasses from his nose and leaned forward. "What's wrong?"

Vincent's claws scored ragged furrows in the wood. "I don'tknow," he gasped. "Fear. A terrible fear..."

Father paled. "Catherine."

Vincent looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"You did this. Before." Father explained in a rush. "You wereconnected to her. You felt everything she did. You would go whenshe needed help..."

"This is her fear?" he asked in alarm.

"What else could it be?"

Vincent couldn't think. "But how do I find her?"

Father was on his feet, agitated. "I don't know, Vincent. Youalways found her, but I don't know how you did it."

Vincent lurched toward the portal, pausing only long enough tosweep up his cloak from the back of a chair. Something indefinabletugged at him and he gave himself up to it. The next thing he knew,he was rushing headlong toward the surface, answering the pull. Hisheart pounded as much with terror for Catherine as with exertion.

He reached the park in what must have been record time, and,with the briefest of pauses to yank the lever that opened the door,charged through the opening.

He seemed to know instinctively which way to go. He racedacross the park, leaping over shrubs and gullies, darting throughstands of trees.

At last he topped a hill and could hear, over the rasp of hisown breathing, harsh laughter and taunts from a copse of trees. Sudden purpose seized him, and he plunged down the slope.

There were two of them, armed with knives. Catherine, herblouse muddied and torn and her cheek bruised, was holding them atbay with a makeshift club. It looked as if she'd been at it for sometime; as he ran, he saw her stumble with weariness. The youths tookturns slashing playfully with their knives and tossing rocks andbottles.

None of them had noticed him yet. The fury building in hischest emerged as a snarling roar. At the same instant, hesprang.

The first boy's eyes widened in horror as Vincent struck hisknife aside. A backhanded blow sent the youth reeling to sprawlsenseless on the ground.

Vincent whirled to challenge the other assailant. The boycrouched, waiting, but as Vincent stepped toward him, his nervebroke. He dropped his knife and fled.

Vincent took a great, heaving breath and shook his head toclear it of the mind-numbing fury.

Rational thought came rushing back.

Catherine.

She had dropped her club and collapsed on the ground. He kneltbeside her. She was weeping.

"You came," she gasped out, between sobs. "I didn't thinkyou'd come."

"How could I not?" he asked gently, and took her into hisarms.

She clung to him breathlessly. "I didn't mean to," she wenton, as if he hadn't spoken. "I was so unhappy, Vincent."

He nodded soberly. He'd known that.

"I thought I didn't care what happened to me. I would neverhave been in the park so late, otherwise. But when I heard themfollowing me, I realized I did care. Even if to go on living meansliving without you." She buried her face in his shirt. "But youcame."

"I knew, Catherine," he explained softly. "I knew you wereafraid. I had to come."

She heard him at last, and lifted her head to stare at him. "Our bond? It's still there?"

"Father says we were connected to one another... before."

"You've always known what I was feeling."

"Yes. I just didn't realize that's what it was."

She blinked at him slowly in the diffuse light that camethrough the trees. "All this time? You've been feeling..."

"Yes."

He could sense the effort it took for her to look away. "Butyou still don't remember."

"No. I never will, Catherine. We both know that."

She nodded, still looking down, and moved away from him. "Iknow. I suppose I can't help hoping..." She faltered, then drewherself up with the resolution he knew and admired, and pushed hertangled hair from her face. "I'd better go."

He couldn't bear it if she left, but how could he ask her tostay? What right did he have?

His mind flashed back to Father. What had he said? Vincenthad claimed not to have lost anything. And Father had replied... hadreplied... "I'm not so sure." Father wasn't sure. And suddenlyVincent wasn't sure, either. Perhaps he had lost something whenCatherine left the tunnels.

He turned the idea over in his mind, examining it. It madesense. It was the only thing that made sense. And it feltright.

Catherine pushed to her feet. He touched her arm before shecould move away. "Wait."

She looked at him; the ache he felt in her heart was reflectedin her eyes. "Vincent. The park isn't safe after dark. I have togo back."

"Wait," he said again. "There is something I must sayfirst."

"What is it?"

For a moment he quailed; what if she rejected him? And then heknew it was a risk he must take. "I think," he answered slowly,"that even here, muddy and disheveled, with your cheek," he touchedit lightly, "swelling and discolored and your hair in your eyes..." - she grimaced and pushed it back - "you are beautiful."

She blinked, and he could see her confusion. "Vincent..." Hervoice was full of pain; it pleaded with him not to cause more.

"I didn't know it until now," he said hurriedly. "Perhaps Ididn't want to know, didn't want to bind you, without thememories..."

"The ones that will never come back." He might have thoughtshe was resigned, if not for the sudden sparkle of tears in hereyes.

"Yes." He bent his head. "But I understood, as I came toyou." He looked into her eyes. "I love you, Catherine. I don'tknow if it's the way it was before, but I love you."

For a long moment she simply stared at him, incredulous. Thenher breath caught on a fresh sob - a sob of joy. He wrapped his armsaround her, holding her close to his chest. "I don't know if it willbe the same between us..."

"It doesn't matter," she answered, her voice muffled in thefolds of his cloak. "That you love me - that's all that matters. Idon't care about anything else."

He knew she really didn't. That he loved her was enough forher. Had always been enough. But it wasn't enough for him. Not nowthat he'd opened his eyes, and seen the truth that had been there allalong.

"I know," he said, his voice trembling, "that we are married. That I am your husband and you are my wife."

"Yes," she answered, and lifted her face to look at him. Tearsstarred her lashes and made dusty trails down her cheeks.

"But you know I have no memories of that. So Iwondered..."

She gazed at him, waiting; the connection between them vibratedwith something he couldn't quite identify.

"Will you marry me again? So that I will have it toremember... and perhaps, as a start to our new life?"

For a terrible instant, he thought she was going to refuse. Orperhaps she hadn't heard. Her hesitation seemed endless... and then,slowly and with great joy, she began to smile. "Nothing could makeme happier," she whispered. Her voice quavered, but joy andconviction rang through his heart. "Yes."

Author's note: The idea for this story took root several yearsago, when the daughter of some friends was hit by a car while ridingher bike. Thankfully, she was not critically injured, but she didsuffer some head trauma. She recovered from these injuries almostcompletely; the only lasting side effect, one that continues to thisday, is that she does not remember knowing one of her brothers beforethe accident. She also does not remember knowing one set of hergrandparents. And according to her doctors, she never will.